Midnight Fears
by Shimjim
Summary: The caged bird sings for the same reason the mad dog snaps and snarls. Not quite sure if this is fluff, but the plot bunnies demanded it. Set sometime in ACoK.


**Be warned, this is my first attempt at writing AsoIaF fanfic, let alone including the Hound in them, so judge me as harshly as you like.**

** Disclaimer: I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire. If I did, though...*fantasizes about making San-San canon***

Sandor was sick and tired of waiting for Joffrey's little bird. If someone had asked him what he was tired of, he probably could have ranted for a good three hours about various things, but the one at the front of his mind was how he had been waiting for three bloody hours for Sansa Stark to ask him to accompany her back to her rooms.

The northern girl had asked to sit out on the balcony facing the harbor, a simple request. _King _Joffrey, high bastard on the Iron Throne, had ordered the Hound to accompany her. Perhaps it wasn't an order—you would be mad to tell Sandor Clegane what to do and expect to get away with it—but he had taken it as such. And so he had stood just inside the castle, watching the little bird out of the corner of his eye.

She was a pretty little thing, although you would have to be an idiot not to notice that. Even though her last name was Stark, she looked the part of a Tully, and she was growing up nicely. Even so, she was as haughty as any highborn lady and seemed to believe she lived in a damn song. _I wonder what she thinks of her handsome prince now, _he thought on impulse. He had ordered that she be beaten again yesterday, and the maesters had treated her for a dislocated jaw, courtesy of Ser Boros.

Night had fallen almost an hour ago, and it was far too dark to see any passing ships. Who was she expecting to see, anyway? Her king brother? He was too busy on the battlefield to worry about a little thing like his sister. "Bugger this," he growled, whipping around and storming out onto the balcony. "Seven hells, little bird!" He rasped. "What's taking you so..."

He trailed off when he saw Sansa's sleeping form curled up in the chair, russet hair covering her face. He noticed for the first time just how small she was, barely filling half of the chair. His eyes examined her carefully, memorizing every detail. She murmured in her sleep and turned, shrugging her shoulders as the mumbled language of sleep left her.

There would be hell to pay if anyone caught him, but the Hound had no intentions of getting caught. He picked her up, hooking one arm under her neck and the other under her knees. She hardly stirred as he carried her throughout the castle, only continuing to whisper words he couldn't make out.

He arrived to her chambers, having evaded the maids and other knights who would have spread the word of some so-called love affair between the king's sworn shield and his betrothed. If anyone would actually have believed it, they were all bigger idiots than Sandor had thought. The little bird hated him, that was true enough. She couldn't even look in his direction.

He moved to lay her down on the bed to see a change come over her. She was as pale as the snow she was raised in, and her hands were knotted in his cloak with an iron grip. Even as he rested her small frame on the bed, she refused to release him. Finally, he unclasped his cloak and laid it over her. But as he turned to leave, he heard her speak, as plain as day. "No." It was a soft whimper, a cry of pain that made him whip around in its agony.

His little bird was curled up with the cloak around her, knees drawn up to her chest. Her eyes were still closed, but the look of pain on her face was clear. "No," she murmured again, "please stop. Not...please." She trembled like a leaf, burying her face in his cloak.

Something inside him, definitely not his common sense, made him walk over to her, crouch down beside her bed, and listen. As it went on, the dream became clear to him as the names are called. Her king brother. Her wolf-bitch sister. Her crippled brother and her traitor father. The bastard and her mother. Her wolf and the youngest Stark. He didn't have to know what she was dreaming about, but he could make a good guess.

As she cried out once again, louder than before, he stroked her hair. Remaining silent, he wasn't sure what to say or if he should say anything at all. The little bird gravitated towards him, nuzzling her head into his chest. It was the first time she's touched him of her own free will, and he couldn't help but feel sick about the triumph he felt for the briefest of moments. Little bird had to be frightened and asleep to even touch him, and yet he was the one to keep her nightmares away.

He sat there for as long as the dream lasted, stroke her hair and letting her sleep against him. Once the worst was over and she had returned to her peaceful state, he regretfully stood and took the cloak from her, brushing his hand over her cheek before walking out.

It's was almost midnight, but he didn't go to his chambers. He knew what awaited them there, nightmares of wildfires and Gregor's monstrous face and little birds with bright red blood in their bright red feathers. He doesn't go to his bed, for the same dream awaited him that had possessed his—for she was _his_, not Joffrey's—little bird.

He knows why the caged bird sings. It's the same reason the mad dog snaps and snarls. They're both afraid of losing what matters most to them.

**Seven hells, what have I done? Feel free to summon pitchforks and torches for my terrible characterization of Sandor, but leave a review while you're at it. Review please!**


End file.
